To Catch an Heiress

Chapter 10

um-laut (noun). 1. A change in the sound of a vowel produced by partial as­similation to an adjacent sound. 2. The diacritical sign (ex. u) placed over a vowel to indicate such a change has taken place, esp. in German.

Knowing what I now know about Mr. Ravenscroft, I really must thank my maker that I was not born German, with an umlaut in my name.

-From the personal dictionary of

Caroline Trent

By mid-afternoon Caroline had come to two realizations. One, James had once again dis­appeared, presumably off somewhere to investigate Oliver and his treasonous activities. And two, she was in love with Blake Ravenscroft.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. To be more precise, she thought she might be in love with Blake Ravens­croft. She had a little trouble believing it herself, but there didn't seem to be any other explanation for the recent changes in her personality and demeanor.

Caroline was well used to her flaw of often speak­ing without first thinking about her words, but to­day she seemed to be blurting out utter nonsense. Furthermore, she had completely lost her usually hearty appetite. Not to mention the fact that she kept catching herself grinning like the veriest fool.

And if that weren't enough proof, she caught her­self whispering, "Caroline Ravenscroft. Caroline Ravenscroft, mother of Trent Ravenscroft. Caroline Ravenscroft, wife of - Oh, stop!"

Even she could lose patience with herself.

But if Blake returned any of her feelings, he gave no indication. He certainly wasn't prancing about the house like a lovesick fool, shouting out odes to her beauty, grace, and wit. And she rather doubted he was sitting behind his desk in his study, idly doodling the words, "Mr. and Mrs. Blake Ravenscroft."

And if he were, there was really no reason to think that she might be the "Mrs. Blake Ravens­croft" in question. Heaven knew how many women back in London fancied themselves in love with him. And what if he fancied himself in love with one of them?

It was a sobering thought, that.

Of course, one couldn't entirely discount the kisses. He had definitely enjoyed their kisses. But men were different from women. Caroline had led a reasonably sheltered life, but that pertinent fact had made itself clear early on. A man might want to kiss a woman without an ounce of feeling behind it.

A woman, on the other hand- Well, Caroline wouldn't presume to speak for all women, but she knew that she couldn't possibly kiss a man'the way she had kissed Blake that afternoon without a great deal of feeling behind it.

Which brought her back to her central hypothesis: that she was in love with Blake Ravenscroft.

While Caroline was busy delving into the rather circuitous depths of her heart, Blake was sitting on the edge of his desk, tossing darts at a dartboard in his office. The endeavor suited his mood perfectly.

"I won't"-whoosh-"kiss her again."

"I didn't"-thunk-"enjoy it."

"Well, all right, I did, but on a purely"-whoosh- "physical level."

He stood, his face determined. "She is a perfectly nice girl, but she means nothing to me."

He took aim, let fire, and watched with dismay as the dart sank a hole in his newly whitewashed wall.

"Damn damn damn," he muttered, striding over to pry the dart loose. How could he have missed? He never missed. He tossed these darts nearly every day and he never missed. "Damn."

"A little testy today, aren't we?"

Blake looked up and saw James standing in the doorway. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Furthering our investigation of Oliver Prewitt, which is more than I can say for you."

"I have had my hands more than full with his ward."

"Yes, I thought as much."

Blake yanked the dart free, sending little pieces of plaster to the floor. "You know what I meant."

"Absolutely," James said with a slow smile, "but I'm not entirely certain you know what you meant."

"Stop being so bloody annoying, Riverdale, and tell me what you found out."

James sprawled in a leather chair and loosened his cravat. "I did a bit more surveillance on Prewitt Hall."

"Why didn't you tell me you were going?"

"You would have wanted to come with me."

"You're damned right. I-"

"Someone," James interrupted, "had to remain here with our guest."

"Our guest," Blake replied sarcastically, "is a woman grown. She isn't going to expire from ne­glect if we leave her to her own devices for a few hours."

"True, but you might return to find another one of your rooms in shambles."

"Don't be an ass, Riverdale."

James made great pretense of studying his fin­gernails. "You're lucky I don't take offense at such comments."

"You're lucky I don't ram your bloody tongue down your throat."

"It's touching to see you so defensive of a woman," James said with a lazy smile.

"I'm not defensive. And stop trying to bait me."

James shrugged. "At any rate, one can spy with far more stealth than two. I didn't want to appear conspicuous."

"Riverdale, you live to be inconspicuous."

"Yes, it is rather jolly to blend into the woodwork on occasion, isn't it? It's quite amazing what people will say when they don't know who you are. Or," he added with a wicked smile, "when they don't even know you're there."

"Did you discover anything?"

"Nothing of import, although Prewitt is definitely living beyond his means. Or at least what his means ought to be."

Blake picked up another dart and took aim. "Step away."

James did so, watching without much interest as the dart sailed from Blake's hand to the bull's-eye.

"That's more like it," Blake murmured. He turned to James and said, "The problem is that we can't automatically assume his money is coming from treasonous activities. If he is indeed carrying messages for Carlotta De Leon, I'm certain he's been paid handsomely for it. However, we also know he smuggles brandy and silk; he's been making a liv­ing that way for years. And he certainly could be robbing Caroline's inheritance out from under her."

"I'd be damned surprised if he weren't."

"But as it happens," Blake said with a slightly smug smile, "I did a bit of investigating myself."

"Did you now?"

"It turns out Prewitt has an office he keeps locked at all times. Caroline wasn't allowed inside, and nei­ther was his son."

James's face spread into a wide smile. "Bull's-eye."

"Exactly." Blake tossed the dart but his aim was wide. "Well, not always exactly."

"It might be time for a little clandestine visit to Prewitt Hall," James suggested.

Blake nodded. He wanted nothing more than to wrap up this case, retire from the War Office, and embark upon his new, respectable, and boring life. "I couldn't agree more."

They found Caroline in the library, sitting under a table.

"What the hell are you doing down there?" Blake demanded.

"What? Oh, good day." She crawled out. "Do your servants dust down here? I've been sneezing up quite a storm."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I was merely going through some of these piles. I'm trying to collect all of your history books."

"I thought you weren't going to proceed in here until your ankle was better," Blake said, rather accusingly in her opinion.

"I'm not putting the books back on the shelf yet," she replied. "I'm just grouping them by subject. I'm not using my ankle at all, which, by the way, is nearly healed. I haven't used my cane even once today, and it hasn't hurt me at all." She turned to James and beamed. "Oh, and it's lovely to see you again, my lord."

The marquis smiled and bowed in her direction. "Always a pleasure, my dear Caroline."

Blake scowled. "We are here for a purpose, Miss Trent."

"It never occurred to me that you weren't." She shifted her gaze back to James. "Have you noticed

he likes to call me Miss Trent when he is irritated with me?"

"Caroline," Blake said, his voice clearly laced with warning.

"Of course," she added blithely, "when he is re­ally angry he reverts to Caroline. He probably finds it too difficult to growl my full name."

James had his hand over his mouth, presumably to staunch his laughter.

"Caroline," Blake said in a louder voice, dearly ignoring her jests, "we need your assistance."

"You do?"

"It has come time for us to gather solid evidence against Prewitt."

"Good," Caroline replied. "I should like to see him pay for his crimes."

James chuckled and said, "Bloodthirsty wench."

She turned on him with a hurt expression. "That is a terrible thing to say. I'm not in the least bit bloodthirsty. It's merely that if Oliver has been do­ing all the terrible things you say he has been do­ing-"

"Caroline, I was just teasing," James said.

"Oh, well then I'm sorry for overreacting. I should have known you wouldn't be so mean-"

"If the two of you can move past your mutual admiration," Blake said acidly, "we have important business to discuss."

Caroline and James turned to him with equally irritated expressions.

"Riverdale and I are going to break into Prewitt Hall," Blake told her. "We will need you to give us every detail about the schedules of the family and of the servants so that we may avoid detection."

"You won't need every detail," she said with a matter-of-fact shrug. "You should simply go to­night."

Both gentlemen leaned forward and stared at her with questioning eyes.

"Oliver plays cards every Wednesday evening. He never misses a game. He always wins. I think he cheats."

James and Blake shared a look, and Caroline could practically see their brains springing into ac­tion, planning their mission. "If you recall," she continued, "it was a Wednesday night when I ran away. One week ago exactly. Oliver obviously chose his card night for Percy's attempted rape. No doubt he didn't want his ears bothered by my screams."

"Will Percy be at home?" James asked.

Caroline shook her head. "He almost always goes out and gets drunk. Oliver can't abide over­indulgence of spirits. He says it makes a man weak. So Percy tipples on Wednesday nights when he can escape his father's watchful eye."

"What about the servants? How many are there?" This time, Blake asked the questions.

Caroline considered this for a moment. "Five, in total. Most are likely to be in residence. Last week Oliver gave everyone the night off, but I am certain he only did that so that none would rush to my assistance when Percy attacked me. He's terribly tightfisted when it comes to anyone other than himself, so I doubt he'd give them time off again with­out a very good reason."

"How nice to know that your rape qualified as a good reason," Blake muttered.

Caroline looked up and was astonished and just a touch delighted to see how angry he looked on her behalf. "But if you are careful," she added, "you should have no trouble avoiding them. It might be a bit confusing navigating your way around the hall, but since you'll be taking me along with-"

"We're not taking you," Blake bit off.

"But-"

"I said, we are not taking you."

"I'm sure if you just consid-"

"You will NOT be going," he roared, and even James blinked in surprise at the volume of his reply.

"Very well," Caroline said in an irritated voice. She was convinced that Blake was wrong, but it didn't seem either prudent or beneficial to her health to disagree any further.

"Don't forget that you have an injured ankle," James said gently. "You would not be able to move with your usual speed."

Caroline had a feeling that James agreed one hun­dred percent with Blake and was just trying to make her feel better -especially since she'd told them her ankle was quite healed- but she appreciated the ef­fort nonetheless. "The housekeeper is quite deaf and retires early," she told them. "You won't have to worry about her."

"Excellent," Blake said. "And the rest?"

"There are two maids, but they live in the village and go home each night to sleep. They'll be long gone by the time Oliver leaves to play cards. The groom sleeps in the stables, so you're not likely to disturb him as long as you approach the house from the opposite side. "

"A butler?" Blake prompted.

'Tarnsworth will be the most difficult. He has very keen ears and he's dreadfully loyal to Oliver. His room is on the third floor."

"That shouldn't be too much of a problem, then," James said.

"Well, no, but..." Caroline's words trailed off, and she clamped her mouth into a grim line. Blake and James were talking intensely between them­selves, and she might have been a piece of furniture for all the attention they were paying her.

And then, without so much as a farewell, they walked into Blake's study, and Caroline was left sit­ting among her books. "Of all the rude-"

"Oh, Caroline?"

She looked up hopefully. Blake had poked his head back into the library. Maybe he had decided that she could go with them to Prewitt Hall after all. "Yes?"

"Do you know, but I forgot to ask you about that odd little book you carry about."

"Excuse me?"

"The one with all the odd words. Does it have anything to do with Prewitt?"

"Oh. No. Actually, I told you the truth when you asked me about it the first time. It's a little personal dictionary. I like to jot down new words. The only problem is that I often forget what they mean after I write them down."

"You might try using them in context. It's the best way to remember the meaning." Then he turned on his heel and disappeared.

Caroline had to allow that his idea was a good one, but all that left her with was a burning desire

to use insufferable, arrogant, and irritating all in one sentence.

Six hours later, Caroline was in an extremely grumpy mood. Blake and James had spent the en­tire afternoon closeted in Blake's study, planning their "attack" upon Prewitt Hall.

Without her.

And now they were gone, having ridden out un­der the cover of the moonless night. Even the stars had conveniently obscured themselves behind clouds.

Those blasted men. They thought they were in­vincible, but Caroline knew better. Anyone could bleed.

The worst part of it all was that they acted as if it was all so much bloody fun. They'd discussed their plans quite animatedly, arguing over times and transportation and the best approach. And to add insult to injury, they hadn't even bothered to shut the door to Blake's study. Caroline had heard every word from the library.

Right now they were probably nearing Prewitt Hall, preparing to break into the south drawing room...

Without her.

"Stupid, stupid men," she grumbled. She flexed her ankle. Not even the teeniest bit of pain. "Clearly, I could have accompanied them. I wouldn't have slowed them down."

Dressed entirely in black, they'd both looked heart-stoppingly handsome. As she'd watched them leave, Caroline had felt unbearably frumpy. She was wearing one of the new dresses Blake had purchased for her, but she still felt like a rather plain pigeon next to those two dashing ravens.

She sat down at a table in the library upon which she'd piled all the biographies. She had planned to spend the evening alphabetizing them by subject, a task which she was now completing with a bit more vigor than was probably necessary.

Plato before Socrates, Cromwell before Fawkes ... Ravenscroft and Sidwell before Trent.

Caroline slammed Milton on top of Machiavelli. This wasn't right. They shouldn't have gone with­out her. She had diagrammed the floor plan of Prewitt Hall for them, but nothing could substitute for firsthand knowledge. Without her they were in danger of stepping into the wrong room, of waking a servant, of-she gulped with fear-getting them­selves killed.

The thought of losing her newfound friends was like ice around her heart. She'd spent a lifetime on the fringes of families, and now that she'd finally found two people who needed her-even if it was purely on a level of national security-she didn't want to sit on^her hands and watch them walk headfirst into danger.

The marquis himself had said that she was crucial to their investigation. And as for Blake- Well, Blake didn't much like to admit that she was in any way involved in their work for the War Office, but even he had said she'd done a good job briefing them about the Prewitt household and their habits.

She knew they would fare better with her on-scene assistance. Why, they didn't even know about-

Caroline dapped her hand to her mouth in hor­ror. How could she have forgotten to tell them

about Farnsworth's evening tea? It was a ritual for the butler. Every night, like clockwork, he took tea at ten. It was an odd custom, but one upon which Farnsworth insisted. Tea, steaming hot, with milk and sugar, butter shortbread and strawberry jam-he demanded his nightly snack, and woe to anyone who interrupted. Caroline had once borrowed the teapot and found herself without blankets for a week. In December.

Caroline's eyes flew to the grandfather clock. It was quarter past nine. Blake and James had left fif­teen minutes ago. They would be arriving at Prewitt Hall at...

Oh dear Lord, they would be arriving right when Farnsworth was preparing his snack. The butler might be getting on in years, but he was certainly not frail, and he was rather handy with firearms. And he had to travel directly past the south draw­ing room on the way from his chambers to the kitchen.

Caroline stood, her eyes wide and her expression resolute. They needed her. Blake needed her. She could never live with herself if she didn't go to warn them.

Without a care to her ankle, she dashed from the room, heading directly toward the stables.

Caroline rode like the proverbial wind. She wasn't the finest rider; in all truth, most of her guardians hadn't given her much opportunity to practice, but she was competent and could hold her seat.

And she'd certainly never had such a good reason to carry on in full gallop.

By the time she reached the edge of Oliver's prop­erty, the pocket watch she'd snatched from Blake's desk gave the time as exactly ten o'clock. She tied the mare-which she'd also "borrowed" from Blake-to a tree and crept toward the house, keep­ing herself hidden behind the tall hedges that ran alongside the drive. When she reached Prewitt Hall, she dropped to her hands and knees. She doubted that anyone was still awake, save for Farnsworth in the kitchen, but it seemed prudent to keep her sil­houette from passing by any windows.

"Blake had better appreciate this," she whispered to herself. Not only did she look utterly foolish, crawling on all fours, but it had just occurred to her that she was back at Prewitt Hall, the one place she absolutely didn't want to be for the next five weeks. And she'd come of her own volition! What an idiot. If Oliver got his hands on her...

"Oliver is playing cards. Oliver is cheating at cards. Oliver won't be back for several hours." It was easy to whisper such thoughts, but it didn't make her any less uneasy. In fact, her stomach felt as if she'd swallowed a brace of bloodhounds.

"Remind me not to mind being left out again," she said to herself. It had been rather irritating when Blake and James had gone off without her, but now that she was here, in the thick of the action, all she wanted was to be back at Seacrest Manor, with perhaps a cup of warm tea and maybe a thick piece of toast...

When it came right down to it, Caroline decided, she wasn't cut out for a life of espionage.

She reached the northwest corner of the house and peered around, her gaze sweeping down the

length of the west wall. She didn't see Blake or James, which probably meant that they were ac­cessing the room from the south window.

If they hadn't gotten in already.

Caroline bit her lip. If they were inside the south drawing room, Farnsworth was sure to hear them. And Oliver kept a loaded gun in one of the hall cabinets. If Farnsworth suspected intruders, he'd surely get the gun before investigating, and Caro­line rather doubted the butler would ask questions before pulling the trigger.

Fresh panic rising within her, she scooted along the grass, moving faster than she'd ever thought one could do at a crawl.

And then she rounded the corner.

"Did you hear something?"

James looked down from his work on the win­dow latch and shook his head. He was standing on Blake's shoulders so that he could reach the win­dow.

As James continued with his ministrations, Blake looked right and left. And then he heard it again-a kind of scurrying noise. He tapped James on the foot and put his forefinger to his lips. James nodded and temporarily ceased his work, which had been causing the occasional clink and clank as he jabbed at the latch with his file. He hopped noiselessly to the ground as Blake crouched, instantly assuming a vigilant posture.

Blake pulled out his pistol as he inched his way to the corner, his back pressed flat against the wall. A slight shadow was approaching. It wouldn't have been discernible except that someone had left a

candle burning in one of the windows on the west wall. And that shadow was growing closer. Blake's finger tightened on the trigger. A hand appeared from around the corner. Blake pounced.